A Father's Love
by Imbecamiel
Summary: PostROTK. Two semirelated vignettes explore the way two fathers' love manifests itself. Aragorn and Faramir centric, with appearences by Pippin, Elrond, Denethor, and Arwen.
1. Mourning

**A Father's Love**

_By Imbecamiel_

**Rating: **G?

**Characters: **Faramir, Pippin, Denethor

**Summary: **Written for SNWCG #2, "Fear". Post-ROTK. Faramir grieves for his father and brother, as he looks back on his life, and particularly recent events. Pippin offers him hope that his father's feelings may not have always been what they seemed.

** Disclaimer:** Does this _really _sound like Tolkien's writing to you? Do you _really _think anyone would actually pay me for this? No? Well, what does that tell you? 

**A/N: **I wrote this vignette using mainly movie-verse, however I did draw heavily on the books for some parts, particularly Pippin's description of events. LOL, this didn't wind up having as much to do with "fear" as I'd originally had in mind, but oh well... I guess sometimes there's just not much you can do about where a story wants to go. ;-) I hope you enjoy it!

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**1**

Mourning

It was still so hard to believe, even now... His father was really gone. After so many years of disagreement, conflict, grief, unrealized hopes and wishes, some might have thought the realization would have brought relief. But it didn't.

When he had first been told of it, the news had brought a surge of terrible grief and loss, so great it had surprised even him. Always, whatever words or deeds had come between them, he had truly loved his father, even if that love had never been returned.

Faramir sighed, as he leaned against the windowsill, staring out with little interest at the Pelennor Fields, where so recently so many lives had been lost, and fates decided. Now that the initial shock of sorrow had had time to fade somewhat, and life had settled down enough for him to have time to consider thoughts other than the weighty matters of the fates of countries, and the destinies of entire peoples, he found that he was left with only a numb, aching sadness, and the empty feeling of loss.

Absently, he pulled off the ring he had been wearing on his left hand, distractedly turning it over and over in his hands as he thought.

Why? Why had he never been able to win his father's love? It was certainly not through want of desire, or lack of trying. He had tried, _oh _ he certainly had tried. And yet, it seemed it had not been enough.

He winced, as he recalled the last words he could remember his father saying to him.

//_A quiet, hopeless fatalism filled him, as he spoke with Denethor. It appeared his father blamed him for the loss of Osgiliath. So many men had died so bravely, fighting what he had known from the start was a losing battle. The enemy were simply too many. Though he had searched his own mind and heart many times since the battle, he knew that there was no way that the outcome could have been any different. Apparently, however, his father believed no such thing. _

" _Is there a captain here who still has the courage to do his lord's will?" Denethor questioned, the accusation clear in his tone. _

_Faramir swallowed hard, the intensity of his emotions threatening to choke his words. _

"_You wish now that our places had been exchanged," he whispered. "That I had died, and Boromir had lived."_

"_Yes, I wish that." Denethor's agreement was flat, emotionless._

_He had felt his heart shatter, then, at his father's admission. For all his despair, he now realized that even still, after all these years, his heart had held some hope that things were not quite as bad as they seemed. Perhaps, secretly, he had even believed that now, with his favorite son gone, his father might not despise him quite so much. _

_But no. Denethor's words made his feelings on the matter quite clear. It truly was hopeless, then._

_It was a struggle to conceal the depth of his pain. Tears stung at his eyes, but he would not allow them to fall. If he could not gain his father's love, at least he would not humiliate himself utterly in front of him. He lifted his chin slightly, refusing to allow his voice to waver as he spoke._

"_Since you are robbed of Boromir, I will do what I can in his stead. If I should return-" He hesitated for an instant. "Think better of me, Father." _

_He turned then, not truly wanting to hear his father's response. The only thing he wanted now was to get away, before he risked destroying whatever little respect his father might have for him. But whether he wanted to hear them or no, his father's words followed him to the doors of the throne room._

"_That will depend upon the manner of your return."//_

It would depend upon the manner of his return? Faramir snorted softly. He had returned. Against all odds, he had returned after all. When he had left the city, he had known that this was a hopeless mission, one that he most likely would not return from. One which, if the truth be told, he did not even wish to return from. Boromir, not just his brother, but his best and closest friend, was gone, and his father hated and despised him as much as ever. What did he have to return for?

And yet he had returned - returned not by any skill or valor, but by the blind luck of his foot having become firmly tangled in his stirrup when he had been wounded, and his horse's instinct to return to its stables when it found itself without direction. Oh yes, he had returned.

What must his father have thought of him then? If the manner of his return was to have any bearing on his father's feelings towards him, seeing his son ignominiously dragged home by his horse, after failing in his fight and leading his men to ruin, must have made him very proud indeed.

A sound that was half bitter, self-deprecatory laugh, half restrained sob, escaped him. Glancing downward, his eyes caught on the object his fingers had been toying with, all the while his thoughts had wandered elsewhere. With an added pang, he realized the ring had been a gift from his father, long ago. Very long. Back when he had still believed that there was something he could do about his father's displeasure, some way he could prove himself worthy of his love.

When he was young, it had seemed to be simply a matter of working harder, excelling in his studies. Studying long and hard the lessons his tutors gave him, and working even longer and harder at the martial exercises, which had never come to him as easily or with as much enjoyment as they had to his older brother.

He was glad now, more than ever before, that he and his brother had never allowed their father's favoritism toward Boromir to stand between them. In truth, thinking of it from a purely logical viewpoint, he could understand somewhat his father's preference for his oldest son. It was not only that he was his heir, by far the more "important" of the two sons. Boromir had always been the most like their father. He had inherited much of Denethor's temperament and, along with it, his love of the warrior's life. As he had told the hobbit, Pippin, Denethor and Boromir had always been alike, always been the strong ones.

Unbidden, Pippin's response to that statement came back to him. _"I think you have strength of a different kind. And one day your father will see it."_

Faramir smiled sadly. The hobbit had a kind heart. Here he had come, hoping to offer some cheer to the young one, so alone and far from home. In the end, it had been the hobbit who had offered him words of hope. And, in truth, the words had given him some comfort at the time. But now... Now he saw that it was only an empty hope. A dream.

His father would never see anything again. By his own choice, he was gone now, beyond recall. There would never be another chance to win even his trust or respect, much less his love. His father was gone.

"Father..." Faramir grasped the ring tightly, his clenched fist resting on the windowsill. He rested his forehead against the cool stone wall next to him, pressing his eyes shut tightly.

"He did love you, you know."

To see Faramir's reaction to the words, one might have thought they had been shouted, instead of spoken in a quiet, timid voice, as though the speaker was half afraid of what the man's reaction to his presence might be.

Faramir gave a start, spinning around quickly, his right hand automatically reaching for his sword hilt. He had been at war far too long to respond calmly to any unexpected presence.

He calmed just as quickly, however, his tensed muscles relaxing, as he allowed his hand to fall back to his side - both because he belatedly realized that he no longer wore a sword at all times within the city, and because, only seconds later, he recognized the speaker.

Pippin stepped forward hesitantly, his face uncharacteristically grave as he eyed Faramir seriously. Seeing he had the man's attention, and that Faramir showed no sign of wishing to send him away, he continued.

"Your father, I mean. He loved you, Faramir. Very much."

Faramir summoned up a sad smile for the hobbit. "Thank you, Pippin. I know you mean well, and your words of comfort are appreciated." He sighed. "But I fear you know very little of my father's feelings for me."

Coming closer, Pippin sat down on a bench, which was set against the wall Faramir leaned on.

"No," he said quietly. "No, I don't know much about the way your father acted toward you. Though, from what I have seen, I'd guess your relationship has not been a happy one." Looking up, he met Faramir's eyes. "I can't say anything about the past, but I spent quite a lot of time with him, before all the battles, and I _can _speak for that time."

"You regard sending his son on a suicide mission as an expression of love, then?" As soon as he had spoken them, Faramir regretted allowing the bitter words to slip out. He dropped his gaze, softening his tone. "I am sorry, Pippin. You don't deserve-"

"It's alright, Faramir." Pippin interrupted him. "You don't have to apologize, really. I know you grieve for him. I'm sorry you had to lose him."

Faramir nodded slightly. "Aye, I do grieve for him. But I fear it was not that day on the pyre that I lost him. He was lost to me long ago, and I am not even sure when, or how, nor what I could have done to prevent it."

There was silence between them for a few minutes, before Faramir looked up at Pippin once more. He hesitated a moment longer, before speaking.

"You truly think he loved me?"

Pippin spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully, all the while meeting Faramir's gaze earnestly.

"I saw him when they brought you in, so badly wounded. I was with him, and I watched as he sat by your side all that day, weeping. He wouldn't eat or drink at all. He told me himself how much he lamented having sent you out, without blessing or thanks, and he blamed himself terribly for having sent you into needless danger. People called for him, but he wouldn't go to them. If they wanted to speak with him, they had to come up to your room, because he refused to leave your side for any reason. He was afraid that you might wake, or speak before the end, and he would not miss that opportunity for anything, even though Minas Tirith were falling to ruin around him. If those were not the actions of a father who loved his son, what are?"

Faramir's attention had quickly become riveted on Pippin as he spoke, and now he looked at the hobbit with almost a pleading expression, as he asked, "My father did that, truly? You would not make such things up, simply to ease my grief?" Despite the near-desperation of his heart, Faramir's words firmly commanded Pippin to tell the truth.

Pippin did not waver under the man's scrutiny.

"Yes, he did." He replied, with the same simple sincerity he had shown throughout. "I wouldn't lie to you about this."

After a pause, Pippin stood to leave. He had said and done all he could, what would be made of it was up to Faramir now.

"Pippin."

Faramir's voice halted him, on his way out. Turning, he looked at the man questioningly.

"Thank you." Faramir's expression made plain his gratitude, even more than his words, as he smiled at the hobbit. And, despite the fact that tears rolled down his cheeks, it was a true smile, without bitterness.

Pippin returned his smile, nodding, before continuing on his way.

As he claimed the seat on the bench that Pippin had so recently vacated, Faramir heaved a long sigh, this time one of release and acceptance, rather than hopelessness. At last, he could grieve truly, without tormenting himself with endless 'what if's. He had regrets still, yes, but no longer hopeless despair.

//_Your father loves you, Faramir. He will remember it before the end.//_

Faramir smiled to himself, recalling Gandalf's words to him, just before he rode out on that last, hopeless mission. As usual, despite all evidence to the contrary, the wizard had been proven right in the end.

He was loved, he knew that now beyond a doubt. Not only by his father, but by his friends, both new and old. Lives would go on, Arda would be rebuilt and, maybe not today, but one day, all would be well again.

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**TBC... sort of. I'll be posting the second part, a semi-related vignette, which is Aragorn-centric, next week. I hope you'll come back to read it!**

**Thank you very much for reading. And, as always, comments and constructive critisism are very much appreciated. Please let me know what you think!**

**- Imbecamiel **


	2. Celebration

**A Father's Love**

**(part 2)**

_By Imbecamiel_

**Rating: **G?

**Characters: **Aragorn, Arwen, Elrond, and a crowd of anonymous people :-)

**Summary: **It's Aragorn's wedding day, but one thing is still weighing on his mind, threatening to detract from the happiness of the day.

**Disclaimer: **See part one.

**A/N:** Along with the first section, this was done for the SNWCG "Fear" challenge. While it's also Post-ROTK, it's only loosly related to the last vignette, taking place at a different time and involving different characters. I think this could be either movie-verse or book-verse, though I took many details from both - I guess in the end it's more like fanon-verse :-) I hope you enjoy it!

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**2**

Celebration

It was still so hard to believe, even now... He was really here, with her, after so many years of dreams, wishes, and hopes deferred. It was finally his wedding day. One would have expected this day to have brought nothing but unadulterated joy. And it did... Almost.

There was only one thing keeping him from enjoying this day completely. In all their years together, there had been only one thing that had truly come between him and his father. Only one thing that had truly damaged their relationship - for a time he had feared, permanently.

As the years had passed, he had realized that, however strong his feelings were on the matter, his father did not intend to allow his choice in love to sever their bond entirely. But that had not prevented their relationship from cooling somewhat in the time since it had become clear that the path his heart had chosen was not to be diverted. In truth, he knew that said cooling had likely resulted primarily from his own frequent choice to avoid Rivendell, in order to avoid the possibility of more conflict over the matter. He had avoided conflict, in that much he had succeeded, but in doing so he had also avoided healing.

Now, even as Aragorn stood, looking into Arwen's eyes, he was still keenly aware of Elrond's presence in the crowd of happy observers at the ceremony that would declare before all the world that they were one, for the rest of their lives. Or, perhaps, it would be more accurate to say for the rest of _his _ life. And that was where the difficulty lay.

In returning his love, she would condemn herself to death. From the moment he had first acknowledged his love for Arwen, the thought had grieved him more than he could find words to express, no matter how many times he had tried. He wondered if Elrond knew just how well he understood the elven lord's own overwhelming sorrow at the idea of Arwen's precious, immortal life being cut short.

He had tried to prevent it. Despite the fact that it tore his own heart out to do so, he had tried to sever their relationship. He had begged her to follow her father's wishes and take the ship to Valinor, had tried to convince her that he would not marry her, and that it was for the best.

But Arwen... Always so perceptive, and with the added intuition of love, she had seen through all his words in an instant, and had refused to accept them. She had seen that, though his torment at the thought of her sacrifice was real enough, he did not truly believe his own words. He loved her, the thought of losing her brought a pain as great as the thought of her staying for him, and whatever might be said on the matter, he could not bring himself to believe that denying their love for each other would be the best solution.

In the end, it had not been Elrond's entreaties, fears, and pain, nor Aragorn's conflicted and torn heart that had made the decision, but Arwen herself. She had made her final choice, irreversible now, and accepting it, Aragorn had found both peace, and incredible joy. She was his, and he was hers, for as long as they remained on Arda.

But could Elrond accept it? And, perhaps even more important, could he find the same peace? To expect that he might find happiness in losing his only daughter to a mortal life was too much, Aragorn knew. But was it possible he could at least reconcile himself to the idea enough to wish them well? Aragorn truly did not know.

Elrond had brought Arwen here, to him. But what did that mean? Did it signify any change of heart, or did it only demonstrate that he would keep his word, whatever the price? Elrond had told him that no man less than the King of Gondor could marry Arwen. And now, against all odds, he was King, and Elrond had fulfilled his promise, bringing his daughter here to become the Queen of Gondor.

But again, the question pressed on him - what did it mean? His heart was torn between hope and fear. Oh, how he wished now that he had had an opportunity to speak with his father in private. But, as he was discovering, it was no easy business being the new king of a recently war-torn country, still reeling from the blows it had been dealt, and attempting to re-organize, when so many in positions of authority had been lost. Unfortunately, at the moment his new responsibilities meant that, even as he was preparing for his wedding day, urgent demands for his attention seemed to fill his every waking moment - and far too many of his not-quite-awake ones as well.

Aragorn felt his heart clench in apprehension, but he knew he could put it off no longer. He had to know. Valar, how was it that such a simple act could petrify him, more even than the terrible battles he had recently faced? But at that moment, more than anything else, he needed to know his father's true feelings, whatever they might be.

Gathering his resolve, he looked over to where he knew his Elrond was standing... and felt his breath catch, as the tight knot in his stomach melted in relief.

Elrond met his gaze steadily, and the joy and peace in his eyes far outweighed the sorrow Estel knew must linger in his heart. Aragorn felt a broad grin spread over his face in response to the encouraging smile his father sent him. His father. His _Ada._

He should have known. After all these years, he should have known. The love and happiness that he could feel practically radiating off Elrond eased his heart and silenced his fears. His father loved him, and was glad for them. He might grieve the loss of his daughter, but he did not disapprove of or grudge her her choice.

Now, this could be a day of true joy for him. And, whatever else the future held for him, Aragorn knew he could face it now, in this knowledge. He and Arwen would face it, together.

**The End**

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**A HUGE thank-you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter - you were a wonderful encouragement! (And I'd also like to say a special thanks to SusanMc - sorry I couldn't reply to your review, since you didn't leave an e-mail. It was very appreciated!)  
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**Thank you for very much for reading! And, of course, comments and constructive criticism are very much appreciated. Please let me know what you think!**

** - Imbecamiel  
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